


Let The World Turn

by QueenofEden



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Tenderness, Unnamed Apprentice (The Arcana), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 20:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18724675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofEden/pseuds/QueenofEden
Summary: They should be cold, his eyes, but they aren’t. Instead, all she finds there is kindness. A warmth, a heat-- palpable and near tangible enough to stoke her own. The weight of his hand on hers sears like an imprint. A brand.





	Let The World Turn

**Author's Note:**

> For Morgan ❤️

The clinic is quiet at night. The only sound in the cramped main room the scratch of her quill, and Brundle’s soft snores. With a flourish, she signs the last page of the report and dusts the whole of it with sand before the ink has a chance to smudge.

Above, at the top of a rickety set of stairs, the door to the doctor’s private office stands almost closed. A thin strip of light just barely ekes out around its edges where it hangs, slightly crooked and out of frame. It's the only indication that someone else is still here, and it hasn't wavered or dimmed in hours. She had never been here so late herself, but whispers moved between the lips of the few other volunteers that Doctor Devorak never left, that he had no need for sleep. That he had no true home, or love, save this clinic, and so this is where he stayed, even when everyone else was gone for the night.

She stands and stretches-- spine, knees, joints-- all creaking and popping in riotous harmony with every movement. Brundle cracks open a single, rheumy eye when the chair scrapes backwards, obviously displeased to have had her sleep interrupted.

“Didn't mean to wake you, girl,” she says, kneeling to give the dog a few generous behind-the-ear scritches. Eventually, a warm, wet tongue lolls out and swipes across her forearm, as close to a show of forgiveness as she’ll get.

Once more, she looks up at the office door, then back to her stack of reports. It was late, past midnight, and closing in swiftly on pre-dawn. Delivering paperwork could wait, but there was no guarantee that come first light they wouldn't see yet another rush of victims, taken ill in their beds overnight. Best to take advantage of the lull, she tells herself, the same excuse that had kept her here this long already. 

“What do you think Brundle? Should we bother your dad?”

Brundle looks entirely unconcerned. She yawns and busies herself licking her paw, then ducks her head and begins snoring again, as if to assert that there is no ‘we’ in this situation at all.

There is still a cup’s worth of coffee in the little copper pot, left over from last night's shift. It's easy enough to rub her hands together and heat it through, back to something somewhat palatable and slightly steaming. The bitter smell gnaws at her own empty stomach, but there's nothing to be done. Only the doctor could take his coffee like this, black as pitch and near as thick. She takes her peace offering in one hand, the stack of paperwork in the other, and carefully ascends the stairs.

Her knuckles rap against the doorframe. A beat, then silence. She knocks again, louder, more insistent.

“Doctor Devorak?”

No reply.

A sting of anxiety drives her to shoulder open the door, too many days spent watching the sick grow still and quiet before her eyes to be content with inaction. The room is small. She'd only been inside it once before, but it looks much the same as it had then. Stacks of books stuffed to bursting with papers still threaten to topple, held upright only by the frames of the single desk, threadbare cot, and chair. In the center of the room, the doctor lays slumped across the flat of his work table. The single light giving candle gutters dangerously close to his mop of auburn curls. In the shadows, she can see the clear rise and fall of his back as he breathes, air puffing out parted lips to ruffle the curling parchment beneath his cheek.

“Doctor?” she calls, shuffling her papers into the crook of her elbow, freeing her hand to touch his shoulder.

At her touch, the man jerks upward with an undignified snort, nearly toppling the chair backwards, long arms and legs akimbo.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” she cries, trying and failing to help him right himself. He looks at her with wide, startled eyes for a moment, then seems to settle back into himself, chest heaving slightly. “Are you okay?”

“Who, me? Yes, fine, I’m fine!” He smooths the front of his shirt, pulling the wrinkles straight until they bounce back into place. “What are you doing here? Don't tell me it's morning already.”

“No, not morning. Just-- working late. Much like you, it seems.”

“Ah-- well, yes.” He glances furtively at the desktop, a small damp spot on his half written paper from where he'd drooled. When he turns his head, she can see the slightest shadow of ink on his cheek. “Not working very hard if you found me like this, now am I? How embarrassing. Is that coffee I smell?”

She holds out the mug, and he takes it graciously, draining half in one go as though it were fresh water and not something near scalding. If it bothers him he doesn't show it, just sighs and gives her a lopsided grin.

“You didn't come all the way up here just for a wake-up call, did you?” he asks with an edge of teasing. When her brow furrows in confusion, he nods to the forgotten packet still cradled in her arm.

“Oh! Here, right, uh-- reports from the last week.” She hands them over, and he immediately begins to scan their contents. “Another fifty dead from South End alone. There’s been no significant changes so far as presentation. The ah-- the poppy milk I brewed doesn't appear to alleviate the fever as I had hoped, but it does seem to ease their, um, passing…”

She hears her voice waver before she can attempt to control it. The doctor stills, lowering the pages to watch her face, concern etched deep into the lines of his forehead. She will not cry in front of him. Maybe later, when the weight of the day catches up to her, she will shed a few helpless tears into her pillow for all the souls lost, but not here. Not now. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Everything else is there in the report. The leech dealer also sent word that your next shipment is nearly ready, I can pick it up in a day or so.”

“Thorough, as always. Thank you.” His voice is soft, and in spite of herself she preens under under the praise.

He gives the papers a last cursory glance, then stands to file them away with the others. Stacks upon stacks, arranged in a sort of organized chaos only Doctor Devorak himself could hope to understand.

Halfway there he pauses, the set of his shoulders stiffening. He inhales, hisses really, releases the breath with a mirthless laugh. He reaches for the back of the chair to steady himself, his other hand cradling his forehead. The papers drift to the floor.

“Julian!” She rushes to his side, ready to catch him, carry him if need be despite their difference in height. “What's wrong? Are you? Is it your head?” 

He smiles wanly at her fussing, attempting to brush her away.

“I’m fine, really. Don’t-- I just stood up too fast, is all--”

“Please,” she nearly whispers. Her hands reach for his, gently moving his fingers away from his face. “Let me.” 

He flushes lightly, but lets her move him to the edge of the cot without further complaint. His skin is otherwise cool to the touch, but his brow feels warm, tacky with sweat. She trails her fingers down his temples, not wanting to look but knowing that she has to. “Hold still,” she says into the quiet, though he hasn't moved a muscle since she put her hands on him. Gently, she touches the silken skin around his eye, first the right, then the left, pulling gently and checking for--

She sighs with relief. They're bloodshot from strain and stress, but not, not red. He smiles, but it looks strained.

“Will I live, doctor?”

“Don't,” she warns, and he at least has the courtesy to look chagrined. “You frightened me.”

“My apologies, I didn't mean to alarm. It's all par for the course, dear assistant, I promise. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

He tries to stand again. His knees quiver, knocking into her own until she pushes him back down. He curses, pinching the bridge of his nose as a wave of obvious pain wracks him.

“I have something that may help your head. Here--” From the pouch around her waist, she pulls a stoppered vial of light, amber colored oil. When she uncorks it, the sweet smells of lavender and rosemary waft upwards. He takes a deep breath and hums in appreciation.

“Come now, you’ll spoil me.”

“You're exhausted,” she says, tipping some of the oil into the palm of her hand. It warms to the touch immediately, even without the use of magic. “When was the last time you slept?”

He watches her hands, eyes tracking her movements carefully. She gives him a look, the option to refuse her hanging between them. The tips of his ears pink slightly, but he stays silent. When she dips her fingers into the little pool and raises them to his temple, he leans eagerly into the touch.

The oil sinks into his skin, worked by the gentle pressure of her fingers as she traces over his brow. The whole room smells of herbs now, floral and deep.

“You didn't answer my question,” she says. He groans, low in the back of his throat. She shivers.

“Didn't you just catch me dozing not ten minutes ago?” he sighs, eyes drifting closed. The lines of his body begin to relax under her ministrations, the tension in his neck and shoulders easing as she sweeps down to rub behind his ears, into the fine hairs of his nape, then back upwards along the sharp cut of his jaw.

She frowns. “I mean real sleep. In a real bed.” She can't help but look past his shoulder at the thin, nearly threadbare cot with slight disdain.

“Ahh,” he starts, chuckling to himself. “If I tell you that, you’ll be cross with me.”

“Doctor--”

“Please, I think we’re a bit past formalities, don't you agree?”

She pauses, lips parting. They're closer than they've ever been, she realizes. Her shins pressed to his, her fingertips still resting lightly against his face. She can feel the puff of his breath against her throat.

His skin gleams where she’d touched him, kissed with the fragrant oil. He looks… beautiful-- like the polished alabaster of some grand, anointed statue in the temple district. Her whole body warms, a flush of embarrassment and something deeper, hotter, running from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.

“Julian--” she breathes, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes flicker open, his hand coming up to cup hers, to press her palm flush to his cheek.

She looks down at him, a rare treat in and of itself, caught and pinned by his piercing grey gaze. They should be cold, his eyes, but they aren’t. Instead, all she finds there is kindness. A warmth, a heat-- palpable and near tangible enough to stoke her own. The weight of his hand on hers sears like an imprint. A brand. 

It's easy to see in her mind's eye, a path opening up before her. One that seems to move, almost in slow motion, where she lets herself drift farther into his orbit. If she let herself go to him, press her chest to his chest, would broad, strong hands clutch and curl around her back to hold her close? Would his lips be petal soft and tender as they look, or firm and wanting against her own? She could know, she could learn-- could it be so easy as this--?

She pulls back. Just like that, the illusion shatters, the moment of choice passing in the blink of an eye. Julian, oblivious to her thoughts, watches her go until the only evidence of what was, and what might have been, is the high flush of pink on his cheeks.

It's almost funny, she thinks, clenching her fingers into a tight fist at her side to keep from cradling it to her chest like some lovelorn child. All those years spent spurning Asra’s less than subtle overtures, of denying herself his affections, and for what? For whatever gods above to put her in this position now? It feels cruel. So easy to be the responsible one when there is nothing to want, nothing to lose. Now  _ she  _ wants. She  _ wants, _ and there is nothing she can do. Maybe it's what she deserves.

Even the briefest thought of Asra is enough to churn her stomach, the sour taste of guilt in the back of her throat. Julian, at the same time, clears his.

“It's ah-- it’s late,” he mumbles, picking lint from the blanket and flicking it away, smoothing the fabric and rucking it up again between his fingers. “You should go home. Get some rest.”

Home. An empty shop, an emptier bed. Asra’s knick-knacks still clutter her shelves, both memento and burden. She'd done the right thing; Asra was a child, a coward, and yet--

“I could stay,” she says before she can stop herself again. A part of her, the stupid, silly part, desperate to keep whatever remnants of this she can before they slip entirely through her fingers. “I-- there's plenty of things left to do. Downstairs. If you wanted me to--”

Something unreadable crosses his face, only for a moment, then, too quickly, it's lost to his usual grin. This time it doesn't quite meet his eyes.

“Do as I say, not as I do my dear.” He stands, and hovers a hand above her shoulder, not quite touching. She has to look up at him now, like this. Her treacherous heartbeat quickens. The hand not quite touching her drops back to hang at his side. “Go. I’ll be fine now, thanks to you.”

Mouth dry and throat thick, she nods. She turns and goes, the scattered papers of her report crunching underfoot.

Outside the air is cool and crisp, an insistent breeze tugging at the hem of her skirt. The scent of oil clings to her, to her hands to her clothes. Inescapable. If she closes her eyes, she can still see-- can still feel the ghost of his touch haunting her as she walks. She takes the long way this time, hoping exhaustion will overtake her, that she will eventually find a brief reprieve in sleep.

Wound tight as she is, like a spring set to pop, her bed still welcomes her when she greets it. It feels like time slows, sluggish and syrup-like as she undresses, tries to scrub the smell from her palms in her basin to little effect. It still lingers, even as the kiss of cool sheets act as a balm on her bare, overheated skin. The pillows are soft-- not at all like the planes and angles of a body big enough to hold her, to cover her completely would be. She clutches at the down, buries her face in deep enough to smother, until all she can smell is clean. 

It's better this way.


End file.
